Mother Issues
by Deanie McQueen
Summary: Set at some ambiguous point in Season 2: Sam and Dean get hit with a curse that shrinks them to the size of teeny tiny children. Luckily, they have a fine, maternal specimen known as Ellen Harvelle around to take care of them.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** On the happiest of nights, I have dreams about nice ladies who possess maternal warmth making me sandwiches and running their hands through my hair. Sandwiches are delicious.

**A/N2:** This is set sometime mid to late S2, while Ellen is still at the Roadhouse and Jo's off hunting by herself. I just wanted Ellen and Boys fic, to be honest.

* * *

**Mother Issues**

by

Deanie McQueen

* * *

"Here you go, sweetie," Ellen said.

The sandwich looked spectacular: two slices of whole wheat bread laden with fresh mozzarella, a variety of vegetables and a lip-smacking vinaigrette. Not to mention that it was served with a side of salad and a maternal brush of the lips against the top of Sam's mop of hair.

"Thank you, Ellen," Sam said with a boyishly pleased smile. "This looks _fantastic._"

"Yeah, thanks, Ellen," Dean said through a mouthful of his own meat-ridden concoction. "S'great."

Ellen grinned and clapped them on the shoulders. Dean, Sam noticed with some small approval, managed not to jerk away this time, unlike a few moments ago when Ellen gave him _his_ sandwich with a side of greasy bar fries and a failed attempt at the same brand of affection she had shown Sam.

"Your welcome, boys. Enjoy." And she sauntered off to wipe the bar down and set out the nuts. Sam waited until she was out of hearing distance to kick Dean under the table.

"Fuck me," Dean swore, half-masticated meat still rolling around in his mouth. "What the hell did you do that for?"

"You should be nicer to Ellen," Sam sniffed. "She's all sad now that Jo's off hunting by herself."

Ellen _was_ all sad. Sam could tell. She had that lonely look about her that parental figures tend to get when their young leave the nest. Even John had had that look about him a few times when he looked at Sam after...well, that night. Of course, he never had it quite like Dean had it, but that was another matter altogether.

The problem here was simple to someone as caring and perceptive as Sam Winchester: Jo was gone, but Sam and Dean were here. Ellen needed a substitute. Or two.

"M'being plenty nice to Ellen," Dean informed him, even though that wasn't true at all. Dean wasn't accepting any offerings of affection, and he was stubbornly refusing to partake in any form of discussion with this fine maternal specimen known as Ellen Harvelle. Sandwiches, however, sandwiches he would accept.

"You won't let her touch you," Sam pointed out. "She keeps trying, and you-"

"She doesn't need me for that. She has you," Dean cut him off.

"But-_ow_, Dean." Stupid older brothers and their retaliatory kicks.

"Just leave it," Dean told him, a note of warning edging his voice. Sam watched as his brother bit back into his sandwich, well aware that the conversation according to Dean was now over.

So Sam left it and they finished their lunch.

By the time they left the Roadhouse, dark was setting in outside. They stepped out into the cool night air with heads swimming with dead languages and dead things absorbed by books old enough to be dead, and Sam's brain was still trying to organize it all, to line up all of that ancient knowledge of the supernatural so as to perform better when it came time to kill the witch.

"Ganking witches and saving bunnies," Dean said cheerfully. "It's going to be a good night." Dean was obsessed with saving the bunnies.

Sam was just glad this particular case was close to the Roadhouse and that Ellen was letting them stay in the back room (despite the tiny size of the cots, that is.) Free food and free board were always nice things, even though they were going to have to shy away from the bar during its busy hours - Gordon Walker had been telling every hunter and his mother about Sam's "anti-christ" ways, and Ellen had warned them not to risk it. The Roadhouse was prone to being destroyed enough without the younger generation of Winchester adding to the possibility, and money was apparently very tight in the land of the Harvelles.

"You got everything?" Dean asked, and Sam knew he was referring to their witch-killing supplies.

"I have everything."

"Y'sure?"

"I'm sure."

Sam was sure. He'd triple-checked everything before leaving and now they were here. They were at her den, or whatever the fuck witches called their residential abodes, and they were going to do their job, just like they'd been doing their job all their lives.

* * *

Dean slept weird that night, feeling his arm pulse with the ache of the open cut from the witch's blade. She'd gotten him good with that one quick slash, cackling with the flames rising up from the bottoms of her irises, licking her pupils, and Dean was reliving the memory. He was dreaming about it now, his subconscious cleverly leaving out the glorious end to the evening: her blood on his hands and the liberation of five snow white bunnies, their furry faces twitching happily as they scampered off into the night.

But his dreams weren't about this happy ending. They were about the knife and the way it had cut him, and the way it had cut Sam when Sam had attempted to intervene. Over and over again, his mind played this moment and he felt small and helpless as he twisted around on the tiny cot, sweating and aching and reaching for Dream Sam, longing to close up that wound in his little brother's arm.

"Sammy," he said in his dream, and mumbled in his sleep. "S'okay. I'm right here."

Dean was right here and Sam was right there and the witch wasn't gone yet and Dean couldn't make her gone and it had been months since Dad died, but Dean wanted Dad. Dean wanted Dad in his dream and in his sleep because Dean was bleeding and Sam was bleeding and someone had to take care of all of this blood. But Dad was dead. Dead like Mom.

And just like that, Dean wanted Mom. Dean wanted Mom in his dream and in his sleep, because he was small again. Dean was too small for all of this. Dean was too small for ganking witches and carrying dead men on his shoulders.

"Dean?" Sam asked, his arm bleeding.

"I'm right here," Dean told him. "I'm right here, Sam."

"_Dean_," Sam insisted, and the earthquake started. Dean's entire body shook and he looked around for a doorway or something to stand under, and that's when he realized that the witch was gone and Sam wasn't bleeding anymore.

"Where are the bunnies?" he asked, because they were gone, too. They were gone, but Dean hadn't freed them, yet.

"Dean, _wake up,"_ Sam ordered.

Dean woke up. The earthquake stopped.

A little boy stared at him. He had Sam's eyes and nose and girly hair. Dean poked the kid's nose with one wondering finger. "Sammy?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sam huffed. "It's me. Look what she _did_ to us."

_To us?_ Dean thought, with a throat full of dread. His finger was still on Sam's nose. His finger was a small finger.

"Oh, shit."

"Yeah," Sam said unhappily, throwing his hands into the air and flailing them a little. "What the hell, man?"

Dean slid off the cot, which really wasn't so tiny anymore considering his size, and onto the floor. He and Sam were the same height, and he suspected, the same physical age. That was just...everything about all of this was just _wrong._

"Our injuries are gone," Sam sighed. "That's one bright spot."

Dean raised two talented, fun-sized eyebrows and opened his mouth, ready to tell his brother that he'd rather be big and riddled with holes and scars than be stuck in this diminutive body, but that's when Ellen walked in.

"What the...?"

"We're small," Sam informed her. "We're small and the witch is dead and now we'll never be big again."

Apparently rational thought shrunk with his limbs, because when Sam said this, Dean believed it. He believed it with all of his little heart, in fact, so when Sam started to wail, Dean had to wipe away the tears of hopelessness that were quick to spill from his green eyes.

"It's okay, Sammy," he said instead, and wrapped two child-sized arms around his sobbing brother. "I'll fix this, I promise."

He patted his brother's back until the crying subsided, purposefully ignoring Ellen and moving away when she attempted to crouch down and wrap her own adult-sized arms around the both of them.

Dean didn't need her. Dean would fix this. He promised.

* * *

**To be continued...**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I hope you enjoy this chapter. Much love, Deanie McQueen

* * *

Sam was still sniffling, still wiping the back of his hand against his nose, scrubbing his palms over his cheeks, and hating himself for it. He had no idea why he was crying, or what made him cry, or why he wasn't together and calm and reasonable like he was prone to being in the face of Dean's ridiculous over-protective nature, but oh well. His body was tiny and doing terrible things to his mind, obviously, and Sam was willing to go with it.

He pulled away from his brother and reached for Ellen. She was crouched down and staring at them, her elbows resting on her knees, with brown eyes that were concerned and a tiny bit fascinated. She smelled like vanilla and jasmine and lemongrass and all sorts of sweet scents Sam couldn't decipher, he just knew she smelled nice, like women's body wash, probably like Mom would smell if she were alive. If she had ever been alive. Sometimes Sam doubted that Mom had ever existed - she was just some fantasy Dad made up, and Dean believed, some twisted creation of a deity-like woman to avenge. Mom was a plight, a religion, a code.

Mom wasn't here, might have never been here, but Ellen was. Ellen opened her arms and Sam climbed into them, vaguely embarrassed that he wasn't wearing pants. They'd slipped right off of him when his feet had touched the ground that morning, and he'd been too resolute on waking Dean to care too much about finding something as a replacement, or attempting to belt his boxers around his waist which might have been an appropriate and successful maneuver.

"Aw, it's okay, Sam," Ellen said into his hair, "We'll get you boys back to normal in no time." Sam tucked his head into her neck and attempted to disappear into his humungous purple T-shirt that he usually filled out pretty well. The whippet on the front of it, which used to be a joke, was now legitimately pleasing to his eyes. The little boy in Sam had always wanted a faithful canine companion.

"Sammy," Dean's now high-pitched voice came from somewhere behind him. Sam ignored it in favor of melting underneath Ellen's touch, underneath that hand rubbing up and down his now tiny back. He was getting lost in the moment, getting lost in this small thing he had suddenly become and Dean was no longer the biggest person in the room to him. Dean was just a brother, someone to be cast aside in favor of an adult's attention. "Sam," Dean repeated, and this time there was more insistence in the tone. Again, Sam didn't respond.

A few seconds later, he felt the tug at the back of his shirt. It was persistent, this tug, and strong considering the size of the tugger, and it annoyed Sam to no end. He latched onto Ellen, growled, "Go _away_."

Dean yanked him back and off and Sam fell to his ass on the floor, tried again to disappear into his shirt because he didn't need anyone seeing his bits and pieces now that he was little and what the hell did Dean think he was doing, anyway?

"What the _fuck_, Dean?" he asked.

"We need to figure this out," Dean replied, and there was something of an apology in his eyes, but Sam was too wound up in every indiscernible way to comprehend it. He got up and launched himself at his brother.

The tangle of teeny tiny limbs that commenced was broken up shortly thereafter by an aggravated Ellen and a freshly-woken Ash, who blinked hooded and mildly surprised eyes at the Winchester brothers.

"Whoa," he said, knocking Dean gently away from Sam with the side of one denim-covered leg. "I take it last night didn't go so well?" He paused, scrubbed a hand over his scruffy face. His eyes widened with a thought. "Didja get the bunnies out, at least?"

Dean huffed, brushing a strand of baby-soft hair away from the fresh scrape on his forehead. "We did," he said. "Best part of the goddamn evening."

Ash nodded. "It was all good until you woke up as midgets, then?"

"The correct term is _little people," _ Sam exploded. He couldn't help it - these people and their lack of political correctness would be the death of him. "And we're _not_ little people. We're..." he trailed off. He wasn't exactly sure what they were.

"Six," Ellen supplied, placing a placating hand on Sam's shaggy head. "You're about six. Ash, go get the first aid kit, will you?" Ash opened his mouth to say something else or perhaps protest, but Ellen was exuding that make-it-snappy aura that Dad used to encompass (_Do what I say when I say it_) and Ash scampered off and back in within a matter of moments.

"I don't have any injuries," Sam informed her, because he didn't. Maybe a bruise on his left leg, there was a teensy space on his thigh that ached just a little. Dean had got in one good shot.

"Good," Ellen said. "It's for your brother." She opened the kit up and pulled out supplies with which to clean Dean's scrape - but when she reached for him, Dean skidded back, glaring a distrustful glare.

"I can clean it myself, Ellen," he said. "M'twenty-seven years old. And I'm not a pansy like this one here," he added, nodding in Sam's direction. "It doesn't need to be cleaned at all, really."

"It does," Ellen replied, and Sam could see that she was reaching the end of this morning's rope. She was gritting her teeth and there was fire in her eyes. "It's small, but so are you. Small things get infected easily."

"I'm not a _small thing,"_ Dean replied, grossly offended. "I'm six foot one and built like a Greek god, you'll be happy to know."

Sam snorted. His brother was delusional. "You're soft around the middle."

A bull's outraged breath escaped Dean's minuscule nose. "I am _not_ soft around the middle, you stupid little-"

"Your abs are barely defined. _I'm_ built like a Greek god."

Sam felt incredibly immature, taunting his brother in such a way, but Dean deserved it. Dean was being mean to Ellen. Ellen, who was going to take care of them. Ellen, who was catching Dean before he could lunge all three feet and five inches of himself at Sam for a second round.

"_Enough_." Ellen's voice was deafeningly quiet, and the word was spoken in a way Dad had spoken it on those rare occasions when he was sober and Sam and Dean were fighting. Sam and Dean didn't used to fight all that often. "You're both going to make this harder if you can't get along." Dean tried to pull away, struggled, but Ellen held fast and growled, "Settle."

And Dean went still.

"Now, you listen to me, boy. You can clean it or I can clean it, but that scrape's getting cleaned. And you're gonna drop this goddamn attitude because you can't handle this one all by yourself. You're _six._"

"M'twenty-_seven_," Dean shot back and this time, he did manage to push his way out of her arms. "Almost twenty-eight. Just because some bitch witch fucked me over and made me small doesn't give you the right or reason to _infantilize_ me. I can take care of myself _and_ my brother. I mean, thanks for your hospitality and everything, Ellen, but I think we're gonna be cuttin' out of here as soon as-"

"How?" Ellen asked, cutting him off. "How do you plan on getting out of here, exactly?"

"In my car," Dean snapped. "How else?"

Ellen shook her head, amazed. "Kid, you're crazy if you think your feet can reach the pedals."

"And you're crazy if you think I'm gonna put up with this shit," Dean shot back. He stomped over to his bed and picked up the boxers that had fallen off of him earlier, made a show of stuffing them in his duffel. "Me and my underwear are out of here," he grumbled. "Sammy, get your shit. We're gonna go back to the witch's place and see what we can find."

Sam raised an eyebrow. He wasn't going anywhere. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean," he said. "Ellen's right. Your feet _can't_ reach the pedals. Stop and think about it, will you? We're too small. Pretty much anything or anyone could overtake us and no one in their right mind will take us seriously. Everything we can do, we'll do from here."

But Dean wasn't listening, apparently. He was dragging his duffel across the floor by a strap, trying his best not to show the effort he was putting in to do so and failing. Failing miserably.

Ellen sighed. "Ash? Go get 'em some clothes, will you?"

Ash, who had been standing quietly off to the side during this entire altercation, blinked and sucked in a breath, waved a hand over Dean's struggling little form. "What about this?" he asked.

"He'll tire himself out by the time he gets to the lot," Ellen replied and it was true. Ash left, and Dean was panting by the time he reached the Impala. He slumped over his bag and searched his charcoal-gray sleep shirt for his keys for several moments before realizing that his keys wouldn't be in a T-shirt with no pockets.

"Where are my freakin' _pants?"_ he demanded, turning around on one bare heel and wincing at the feel of the tiny, sharp pebbles under his feet. He pointed an accusing finger at Sam.

"You left 'em in the room. Only picked up your boxers," Sam told him cheerfully from the entrance of the bar. Sam, at least, knew better than to walk outside on his bare feet.

Dean made a noise like an angry dog and kicked his duffel. His toes must have hit something hard because he squealed after the fact and hopped around on one foot, cursing up a storm.

Ellen strode over and bent down, swept Dean into arms that must have been stronger than they looked. "Give it up, kid," she said. "We'll fix you as soon as possible, I promise, but you gotta cut this out."

Sam saw some of the fight leave his brother in that moment, like there was wind all built up in that little body and Dean just, kind of...deflated.

"At least the bunnies are free," Dean said, and it sounded like a sound that was trying very hard not to sound like a whimper. He reached for his hurt foot and moaned.

"Yeah," Ellen agreed. "At least there's that." She carried Dean back inside and set him down on one of the bar stools.

Sam trotted after them and watched as this fine, maternal specimen known as Ellen Harvelle tended to his brother's scrapes and wounds.

* * *

**To Be Continued...**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thank you all for reading. I hope you're enjoying this story. ~Deanie McQueen

* * *

Dean pulled the small, black T-shirt over his wee head, and patted his hair down before mussing it up again. The shirt was baggy. The child-sized jeans were loose, too. Dean remembered how he and Sam always had oversized clothes when they were younger, because Dad had said they'd grow out of them any day now, and then they grew out of them and then their clothes were too small. That's when the cycle would repeat itself, until Sam and Dean grew to full stature and could finally buy clothes that fit them, clothes that they would wear until the holes became too many and too noticeable, the fabric too dirty from the bloodstains that wouldn't wash out.

This particular T-shirt had a little pocket on the left-side of the chest. Dean fingered it, wondering what could be put in a pocket so small.

He trotted out of the bathroom and into the bar, sidled up to the pool table which Ash was leaning against and smacked the guy's hip with the back of his tiny hand. Ash looked down, quirked an eyebrow.

"Dude, thanks for not buying me anything with Elmo on it."

Ash smiled with his red-rimmed eyes, and slurred, "Dr. Badass is known for his charity towards the chilluns."

Dean snorted, for the first time noticing that Ash's hand was wrapped around the neck of a half-empty bottle. "You drunk already, buddy?"

"Gettin' there."

Dean nodded. "Good." And he delicately untangled the drink from Ash's hand, a bit of a jolt hitting him when he realized how heavy it seemed, how huge this bottle looked in his own small extremities. Ash was drunk already. Dean, who had woken up a fun-sized version of his former self, understood this need for numbness. Supernatural shit drives everyone to drink.

He struggled in his attempt to maneuver the bottle to his lips, but it got there eventually. Dean would always prevail when it came to booze.

He was just about to tip it back into his mouth when he was suddenly knocked forward, thrown off-balance, and the bottle went flying, landing in a splash of glass shards on the Roadhouse floor.

"Hey!" Dean yelled as Ash groaned, because that could have taken out his wee baby teeth, that kind of move, and he whirled around on one now-sneakered heel to glare at his diminutive brother. His brother, who was wearing a navy blue cable-knit sweater vest and an indignant glare.

"You're in a _six-year-old's_ body," Sam informed him. "You can't drink hard liquor, you idiot."

"That's a myth," Dean retorted. "And it's _ageism_, which you should really be aware of since you're a bleeding-heart and all. Alcohol is a God-given right to men, women, and children of all sizes, shapes and walks of life."

Sam was just opening his big, stupid, goody-two-shoes mouth to reply when Ellen came running in, wide-eyed and looking for signs of danger. She stopped and sighed when she saw the glass and the liquid on the floor, but Dean saw her face harden before she even turned to them and he knew what he had to do.

He pointed a finger at Sam. "Sammy did it." And then, after a pause, "And he _pushed_ me."

He felt a little guilty, really, tattling on Sam. Throughout their childhood, Dean had constantly taken the blame for the results of his little brother's childish displays of temper or acts of rebellion. Sam was Dean's responsibility, after all, and therefore, anything the little geek did was ultimately Dean's fault. But this...this was just ridiculous was what this was.

Ellen looked at Sam, who had those stupid goddamn puppy eyes ready and waiting for her. "M'sorry, Ellen. I really am. I'll clean it up - I just...Dean was going to _drink_ it. His body's too little to handle 100 proof whiskey."

"You were going to let him have that?" Ellen asked, but she wasn't asking Sam. No, all of her ire was directed at Ash, who was blinking at her with a woozy, sheepish smile and holding up two hands in defense.

"Aw, Ellen-"

"Don't you 'aw, Ellen' me. You're a goddamned genius and you didn't realize a small amount of that shit would probably give him alcohol poisoning?"

Ash shrugged, flipped his mullet. "He's still got his mind. Figured he could make his own decisions. I won't let it happen again, I promise."

Ellen narrowed her eyes at him, but nodded in acceptance. "Good. You make sure you don't." She continued to glare, though, seeming much taller than she actually was as she crossed her arms and frowned. Ash shifted on his inebriated feet.

"I'll just...I'll go do some research," he said. "Try to get the ball rolling on returning the rugrats here to their former glory."

Dean watched his mullet-headed friend leave with a feeling of dread in his stomach, a feeling he realized, after a mere moment, was not unfounded, for Ellen was quick to turn those crossed arms and that frown on_ them_. Dean was hit with the memories of hearing her going at it with the Jo. The yelling. He remembered cringing at such displays of parental authority.

"You don't have a lick of sense, do you, boy?"

The words were directed at Dean and Dean only. He felt something dig into his chest at the sound of them, though he would never admit it. Not on his life.

"'Apparently not," he said instead, in a tone of forced cheer. It was true - Dean _didn't_ have a lick of sense. Dean was always fucking up, people were always dying or almost dying, and Dad was dead. Dad was dead because of Dean, and now he and Sam were orphans, all because Dean didn't have the sense God gave kittens to give up on that goddamn hospital bed before Dad had the chance to make that stupid deal. And now Sam was going to suffer for it, because Dean didn't have the sense it was going to take to keep him out of the raging shitstorm that had been heading their way for twenty-three years now.

"Dean?" Dean felt a tug on his sleeve. Sam. "You okay?"

Dean quirked an eyebrow and looked at his brother, wondering what the hell he was on about before realizing, much to his horror, that his eyelashes were wet and sticky, his cheeks slick with tears.

_Jesus fuck_, he thought, and turned away from both Sam and Ellen, rubbing viciously at his face. Stupid kid's body, affecting his mind.

"Sweetie?" He felt a hand bigger than Sam's on his shoulder. It was warm and squeezed him in a comforting manner. He let it stay there for a second before pulling away.

"M'fine," he said. "It's just the stupid curse or whatever is fucking with my head is all."

Ellen, for her part, didn't press, just said, "Don't let me catch you near the alcohol until this is fixed, you hear?" and Dean nodded, and looked at the floor, slightly ashamed.

"Yes, ma'am," he said quietly, because he was good at this part. He'd always been good at being repentant in front of Dad, and Ellen was more forgiving than Dad so he knew it was going to be okay when she told him to go sit on one of the stools while she swept the floor. She didn't want him stepping on any glass.

"And you don't push your brother," Ellen said to Sam before shooing him to sit next to Dean.

Dean folded his arms on the bar and put his head down on his arms. He listened to the tinkling sound of the glass colliding on the floor, pushed into a pile by the broom Ellen was sweeping it with. It was a soothing sound.

"Dean?" Sam asked again, this time in a quieter voice. "You okay?"

Dean turned his head and looked at his little brother, who wasn't exactly littler than him any more in any sense of the word. He wasn't in the mood for one of Sam's attempts to talk, so he said, "You look like such a geek in that sweater vest."

Sam huffed. "I _like_ my sweater vest."

"You would."

Sam didn't try for a comeback, but he, too, folded his arms on the bar and put his head down on them, his cheek mushed against the sleeves of the silver buttondown shirt that accompanied his sweater vest as he said, "I really hope we get this figured out soon."

"Me, too," Dean agreed. Because he did. He really, really did.

* * *

**To be continued...**

**Your thoughts are greatly appreciated.  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Sometimes I get sad and create chapters that are sad, even if the rest of the story is not quite as sad as the particular chapter I post when I am sad. Pardon this angsty interlude within Sam and Dean's first day as small boys. ~Deanie McQueen

* * *

Ash was still holed up in his room, the in/out sign under the wooden block etched _Dr. Badass is: _appropriately turned to_ in_. Despite his longing to return to his former height, Dean had little interest in aiding in the research - his mind kept drifting, and he found an odd sort of entertainment in wandering around the main bar area, smacking the backs of chairs and humming the main guitar riff of _Black Dog_ as he went.

Sam, of course, had knocked politely on Ash's door and called his name over and over again until Dean yelled, "Hey, Dr. Badass!" because Sam never really learned that sometimes you just have to give in to the vulgar nature of smart drunks even though Dean, for one, thought it was pretty obvious. And Sam had disappeared into that hole to help find a solution, while Dean had snickered and wondered how many used condoms were hiding in the bed covers, how strong the stench of sex was in comparison to the reek of vodka.

Dean took a wide step, as wide as his short legs would allow, and smacked the back of another chair with his teeny hand. His tummy rumbled with hunger.

He stopped.

_Tummy_, he thought. Dean didn't have a tummy. Dean had a stomach. Mom and Dad had called Dean's stomach a tummy twenty-plus years ago, but Mom and Dad were dead. So tummies were dead, too.

"Dean?" Ellen was rubbing down shot glasses with a rag behind the bar, and Dean turned around to find her looking at him with eyes that seemed to understand too much. "You hungry, baby?"

_I'm not your baby_, Dean wanted to tell her, because he wasn't. He didn't, though. He didn't because that was just the way Ellen talked sometimes. _Sweetie_ and _baby_ and _boy_ and _kid_. She called Sam the first two even when they were big, and Dean the second two.

Distrust, Dean had always made sure that Ellen knew his.

"Yeah, a little," he admitted instead, and he trotted up to the bar when she jerked her head in indication that he should.

"What kind of sandwich do you want?" she asked, and her voice was warm and kind and Dean felt a little guilty for all of the antagonistic emotions swarming around in this stupidly small body he was stuck in.

"Peanut butter and jelly," he replied unthinkingly, because that was exactly what he wanted, what his stupid, rumbling tummy-that-wasn't-a-tummy-because-tummies-were-dead was demanding.

She looked surprised and Dean felt her brown eyes flicker across his face, skeptical, maybe.

He shifted uneasily on his feet. "It's...it's okay, if you don't have..."

"We have it," she cut him off, and then smiled down at him encouragingly. "White or wheat?"

"White...please," he said, and took a seat at the bar for the third time that day. It was almost time for dinner, actually. The sun was starting to hang lower in the sky. Hunters would be pouring through that door soon.

Ellen went back into the kitchen and came out a few minutes later with the sandwich on a small, white plate. She set it on the bar and pulled out a knife, raised her eyebrows with a slight smirk even though the question was genuine, "You want me to cut the crusts off?"

Everything in the room seemed to be standing still. Maybe time stopped. Maybe it was just moving very slowly, but Dean was just barely aware of the presence of Sam and Ash in that back room, or Ellen in front of him, because he wasn't here any more. Not right now. Dean was small. Dean was very small and his Mom was very not here and he suddenly became very aware of this fact. He should have been able to smell her and feel her and climb into her lap and play with her blonde hair, but she wasn't here even though he was and he was small, so she should have been here, but he was six and not four so her being here wouldn't make any sense at all, would it? No, it wouldn't. It wouldn't at all. Six, and not four, so she wasn't here, but it was fresh. The fire was fresh. The ash that fell from the ceiling was still fresh and still awful and still burning his tiny body from the inside, out, searing his mouth shut, and Dean didn't want to talk. Dean didn't want to talk and he didn't want his crusts cut off his sandwich by a woman who wasn't his mom.

So he shook his head.

"Okay," Ellen said agreeably, but she cut the sandwich into four tiny squares, just like Mom used to do. It was too big, otherwise, for his clumsy little hands and his clumsy little mouth.

She pushed the plate towards him. "Eat up," she said.

He pushed the plate away.

"Dean," Ellen sounded aggravated. "I made it for you. You eat it." She pushed the plate back towards him.

He pushed it away.

Ellen made a frustrated noise. Dean heard that noise often enough, made by mothers on playgrounds, and he was upset by this fleeting thought - upset by how many playgrounds he'd been to in his adult years because of this job. This fucking job he was raised to do simply because he was a boy with no mother.

"Boy, I am not kidding you. You want to be treated like you're twenty-seven, then you act like it. We've been over this about three times in the past six hours and I've had _enough-"_

Dean knocked the plate off the counter and onto the ground. Glass shattered in the Roadhouse for the second time that day.

Ellen slammed her hands down on the bar, bit her lip, and started to count to herself. Dean could see the numbers going around in her head. He remembered when Dad used to do this with Sam, when he tried to calm himself down, but he always failed and that failure always resulted in an explosion. Dean wondered if that was what this was - Dean wondered if this was imminent explosion.

His body was too young to remember things like this. His body was too young to remember little brothers who didn't get along with fathers, to remember death after death and countless loss. His body was too young to remember how many times clothes became to small, too tight, how many times they were too big, how many times they were ruined by knives or well-aimed bullets or blood flooding out of dead bodies. His body was too young and too small to hold all of this.

He closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was Billy Pilgrim from _Slaughterhouse-Five_ and that everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

Ellen didn't explode, though. She just swore under her breath a little as she picked the sandwich off the floor. Dean listened to the glass being swept up again, tried to remember how soothing he found the sound only a few hours ago.

He tried to say he was sorry when she finished, but he couldn't.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam found himself yawning by seven o'clock that night when he stepped out of Ash's room. His tiny sneakers scraped across the floor as he walked back into the bar. It was now loud and bustling with drunk hunters and hunters-soon-to-be-drunk and sober-hunters-who-were-staying-sober-because-they-had-a-job-to-do-thank-you, all talking over the sounds of the jukebox's attempts to rattle out _Take the Money and Run_. Sam would have been feeling most uneasy by now if it weren't for the fact that he was in this clever, cursed disguise - he knew that if he were big, they would be looking at him and fingering their guns.

As it was, though, Sam was a little boy. A good, little boy in a spotless, navy blue sweater vest and this is what he would be for a while. He and Ash hadn't come up with anything in the past three hours other than the revelation that it was imperative that they return to the witch's abode and pick up the knife, because it had to be the knife. Sam couldn't remember her emitting a verbal spell of any sort and that knife had cut them both so quick and seared them so fast-

These thoughts were disrupted when Sam ran into a tree. Or rather, a leg that seemed thick enough to be a tree, and he looked up to see a plaid-adorned man with a grizzly beard scowling down at him.

"Watch where yer goin', kid," the man growled, causing Sam to sniff indignantly. It wasn't _Sam's_ fault this guy decided to stand in his way, after all. "What's a little runty thing like you doin' in here, anyway? Ain't it past your bedtime?"

"Isn't it past yours?" Sam retorted, only to find himself on the receiving end of a very dark glare. He stepped away. Not because he was frightened - not at all. It was just...this dude smelled really bad and Sam only appreciated nice scents, like the scent of Ellen's bodywash, whatever that was.

"You talk to your daddy like that?"

No...well, actually, _yes_, Sam did. Sam did talk to Dad like that. A lot, actually. And while talking to Dad like that was never actually a premium idea, Sam always felt a bit smug afterwards. Talking to Dad like that meant he had balls. Big balls. Balls way, way bigger than Dean's.

Because nobody talked to John Winchester like that. Nobody.

So Sam said with a hint of pride in his voice, "No. Nobody talked to _my_ dad like that." He realized his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth, of course. And his eyes went wide. And he swallowed.

The guy went slightly open-mouthed and tilted his head to the side as he studied Sam. "Talked. Your daddy's dead?" Sam could almost see the man's mind working as his eyes flickered with thoughts. "Where's your mama?" He took one small step forward, leering down at Sam. He was very big. Sam wasn't used to anybody being bigger than him anymore.

He stepped back, his heart hammering inside his chest, each thud accentuating the pang of longing for that extra three feet and give-or-take-a-few inches that used to make him far more intimidating than he was right now. Right now, Sam was a little boy in a spotless, navy blue sweater vest and that's all he was.

"She dead, too?" the growly man asked. "What's your name, kid? Who do you belong to?"

Sam stayed silent.

"You look awful familiar, boy. Like this other kid I keep hearing about, except...smaller. You're just a little thing, aren't you?" The man crouched down to Sam's new height. Sam made to take another step back, but the guy caught him around the shoulders, pulled him forward. The overpowering smell of whiskey mingling with the stale odors of chewing tobacco and unwashed clothes drifted to his nose and Sam turned his head away as much as he could. "Y'know Gordon Walker called me up recently, got me to read up on some antichrist lore - those bastards can pretty much do anything, you know? They can turn you into a celery stick just by thinkin' it. Now, I imagine they can turn all that power back on themselves if they need to...don't you?"

"I...I don't-"

"Now, I heard tell this boy was in these parts...and Ellen over there, feisty lady that she is, she's real loyal when it comes to Winchesters- _ow!" _The speed at which the man jerked his hands away suggested that Sam's shoulders were fire-levels of hot, and he scrambled gracelessly to his feet and whirled around, away from Sam, swearing, "Jesus mother sonuva cocksuckin-"

Sam saw Dean through the space between the man's legs, and tipping his head just a little further back, the impression of where Dean's tiny shoe had kicked the hunter's denim-covered backside.

"Get the hell away from my brother," Dean snarled, then his eyes drifted upwards as if he were thinking, and he paused before adding, "Mister."

The man clenched and unclenched his fists, exhaling short, vicious breaths through his nose as he stared down at Dean. Sam zipped around the man's legs to stand next to his brother, noted that the man's face was an interesting shade of red.

"Boy, you're gonna wish you hadn't done that-"

"Don't you threaten me, you _assmuffin_," Dean said, and he shook his head just a little as he said it, a corner of his lips rising in a smirk. "M'six. I rule the universe. I scream, pretty much everyone in this fuckin' bar comes running. What d'ya think you're doing, anyhow? Threatening little kids like this..."

The hunter's beady eyes narrowed. "You're not a little kid, kid."

Dean raised one eyebrow. "Oh, so you're blind now?"

"Little kids don't talk like you do."

Dean shrugged. "We're advanced for our age. Gifted class and shit. Ain't that right, Sammy?"

For the second time in less than ten minutes, Sam swallowed down his horror. He looked at his brother with eyes that said, _you're an idiot, Dean,_ but Dean just scrunched his face up like he didn't get it.

The hunter smiled an open-mouthed smile and his teeth were yellow and black and pointy in a way they shouldn't be.

Dean snorted. "Dude, lay off the tobacky."

"Sammy...Sammy Winchester?" His eyes were alight with triumph. He knew it. He had known it from the second he started talking to Sam, and Sam knew that he had known all this time, and what were the fucking odds that this, this fantastic otherworldly veil the witch had cursed him with, would fail so quickly? A chuckle escaped the man's throat and it was a cold sound. "You're not a liar. Your daddy _is _dead."

Dean was pale now and looking around for a weapon, for a way to shut the guy up before he could say anything more, before they got noticed by everyone else in the bar, but Sam had the solution. As the baby of the family, Sam remembered when this had always been the reasonable solution.

He screamed. It was long and piercing and sounded sort of like a shriek, or a banshee's cry, and there were tears. Mighty droplets pooled from his big, blue-green eyes and poured down his cheeks, plunking to the floor. "_E-Ellen_!" he wailed.

And he kept going, kept crying and the tears blurred his vision and fogged his head and he vaguely felt Dean's hand desperately gripping his shoulder, barely heard the sound of Ellen cocking her shotgun, her voice deep and dangerous as she told him - Jeb, his name was Jeb, Sam heard, to get the hell outta her bar, you drunk bastard.

There was a tussle, at least five bodies and lots of swears and Sam heard the door open and close several times, as his brother whispered that it would be alright in his ear and that it was fine now and Sam could stop crying, the bastard was gone.

"He's gone, Sam."

Sam couldn't stop himself, though. He just kept going, and eventually he was lifted into a pair of small, but solid arms. Ellen's hair smelled amazing compared to the rest of the Roadhouse, somehow free of the scent of smoke and booze. Sam buried himself in it as he was carried out of the bar all the way into the back room.

"Sam, sweetie..." he heard her say, and he heard her say other things after that, but they didn't really soak in, didn't become words in his brain, just left her mouth and entered the air and vaporized meaning until they were nothing more than soothing blather.

"We're not really six, you know," he heard Dean say sometime after his beloved sweater vest was gently divested from his body. "It's not even _eight_, Ellen."

"I know," Ellen replied, and Sam almost flinched at the hint of irritation he heard in her voice. "You can stay up if you want, but your brother's tired out."

"He's just-"

"He's _tired out_, Dean." The note of finality in her voice was enough to shut Dean up. Sam's sobs petered out into tiny hiccups, as he found himself back in his purple whippet T-shirt, shoved under the covers, a cool, soothing hand brushing the hair back from his head.

He wondered what the hell had just happened.

"M'sorry," Dean said quietly. "'Bout earlier, I mean."

Sam wondered what had happened earlier. Dean had done something, said something, like Dean was always doing, always distancing himself from any semblance of human interaction beyond Sam and Dad and memories of Mom, and Sam wanted to kick him and tell him to cut it out even though he didn't know exactly what had happened.

But Ellen said it was okay.

"It's okay," she said. "It's been a long day, huh?"

"Too long," Dean agreed. "This body makes me feel like I've been playing Edward Fortyhands for friggin'_ days_ without stopping.."

Sam knew exactly what his brother meant. Being small was like being perpetually drunk, uninhibited and clumsy.

His eyes were closed as he heard Ellen say goodnight. He listened to Dean shuffle around the room for a while.

He started to drift off, but woke up just slightly in time to feel the thin mattress depress with Dean's weight, the gentle knock of limbs as his brother carefully climbed over him and fell asleep with his back turned to Sam's, warm and close.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean looked out the window at the passing scenery and tugged at his seatbelt. Sam, who was appropriately seated in the space reserved for bitches - the bitch seat, that ridiculous little place located between the driver and the passenger - also fidgeted uncomfortably.

Seatbelts, Dean had discovered (and reckoned his brother had, too, by the way Sam had somehow managed to inconspicuously unbuckle his lap belt) were assholes. Ellen's truck wasn't a smooth ride by any means, but that didn't stop Dean from believing this form of safety was a heinous scheme in disguise. Between the shoulder belt's tendency to press into his neck, and/or getting stuck and constricting against his chest, Dean deduced that this alleged "safety harness" was actually a rather mediocre attempt against his life.

He tugged at it again, emitting small sounds of irritation as he did so. Moans and groans and grunts, and other such unintelligible forms of whining. Dean wasn't usually a whiner, but really? Why did cars _have_ these things?

The Impala didn't have such detestable devices as seatbelts. Classic cars lived dangerously, just like their owners.

To make matters worse, Ellen didn't drive with the radio on, either. And while Sam had managed it, the sound of _Dean's_ seatbelt unbuckling? That could somehow be heard over the cracked asphalt and noisy engine.

"Dean Winchester, you put that seatbelt right the fuck back on before I pull this truck over."

Dean's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. Ellen, for all her sweet and overprotective mommy-isms, could sound seriously mean when she wanted to. She had a growl like a lioness, that one.

"Aw, Ellen-"

"Don't you 'aw, Ellen' me. Put it on. Right now."

Inevitably, Dean sighed and re-buckled himself and refrained from tattling on Sam while he did so. That didn't mean he wasn't about to bitch about it, though.

"This piece of shit keeps biting into my neck," he groused, pushing the belt away from said neck. "I feel like I'm in a fucking Anne Rice novel over here."

Ellen ignored him and didn't respond at all when he continued to complain. She seemed to become completely immersed in the road just for the sake of blocking him out, in fact, and Dean was kind of impressed. Dad used to get irritated really easily on those rare occasions when Sam and/or Dean had become restless in the car. Pulling over was hardly ever an idle threat and it usually ended in timed runs until they tired themselves out, or lectures with threatening eyes, or worse.

Dean didn't really want to think about worse. He tugged at the goddamn seatbelt again.

Eventually, Sam quietly cleared his throat and turned slightly to his right, towards Dean. He took the shoulder strap in a tiny hand and pulled it up and over his brother's head without a word, so that it was resting unobtrusively behind Dean's back.

Sam had been really quiet since last night. Apparently screaming and wailing like a six-year-old really took it out of you - even when you were, physically, six.

"Better?" he asked softly, peering out at Dean from under unruly brown bangs.

"Uh huh." Dean nodded, and, with a small fist, socked his brother lightly in the thigh. "You okay there, mini-Sasquatch?"

Sam sighed. "I refuse to respond to you until you refer to me either by my name, or a name that isn't an oxymoron."

"_You're_ an oxymoron."

"I was asking for that," Sam admitted, but he didn't answer Dean's question, just returned the gentle hit to his once-big brother's leg.

They got to the witch's abode without further argument. It was a gloomy scene: a derelict one-story house with rotting wood siding and a dead tree in the front yard. It seemed like the sunlight instantly became overpowered by looming, dark clouds and a mysterious fog and Dean couldn't stop himself from snorting at the stereotypical nature of the supernatural.

The gravel driveway crunched under the truck's tires as they came to a rocky halt.

This is when Ellen noticed the lack of seatbelts.

This is also when, before she had the chance to explode, Sam quickly made a case in his most apologetic of tones and with his most pleading eyes, "If we actually got into a collision, we'd just slip out of them, anyway, Ellen. Either that or our internal organs would get smushed or our ribs would get broken because they're too big for us. Not to mention we're already sitting in the front seat, so really we've just been tempting death and the law this whole drive... I mean, if we're going to be honest with ourselves, what difference does putting our seatbelts on _really_ make?"

Dean heard Ellen grumble something about booster seats as they got out of the truck. He truly hoped with all of his little heart that said grumble wasn't indicative of some future event.

She walked around the back of the truck and climbed up onto the bed. There was a trunk back there, and she opened it up and pulled out a shotgun, swung it over her shoulder before dropping back down to the gravel. Then she stalked towards the house, leaving Sam and Dean to follow.

One thing was clear: Ellen was pissed. And Dean was surprised to find himself suddenly feeling very guilty and very sad and very-wanting-her-not-to-be-pissed-at-him-anymore. A glance at Sam told him that he wasn't alone in these feelings.

They ran to catch up to her, trotted by her sides to keep up with her quick gait.

"M'sorry, Ellen," Sam blurted out. He grabbed her left hand and dug his heels into the driveway until she stopped. "Please don't be mad at us. We're just not used to them and they were all constricting and irritating and..." he trailed off, and Dean watched his eyes as he searched desperately for something to say to right this apparent wrong. "We're just...sorry."

She frowned, her lips pressed thin as she looked down at them with scrutinizing brown eyes. They held their breaths for Dean-didn't-know-how-long until she sighed.

"You're probably right about it being just as unsafe, but it's not safer to have them off, is it?"

Sam shook his head. Dean fidgeted on his feet.

"That's right," Ellen continued. "It isn't. So when it's a choice between one unsafe thing and another unsafe thing, you do the one I damn well tell you to do, you got that?"

Sam looked down and scuffed the toe of his sneaker into the gravel. "Yes, ma'am."

Dean didn't speak up. He was too lost in thoughts of John again, and the way the man had pulled shit like this, too. If there was no right or wrong decision, there was only Dad's decision. And apparently, there was only Ellen's decision. Dean wondered if this was a hunter thing, or a parent thing, or both. Rank. It all came down to rank in the end, and Dean wasn't reigning first at the moment.

That would have been okay with Dad, but sometimes he still looked at Ellen and wondered who the fuck this lady even thought she was.

This was one of those times.

"We don't even _have_ them in our car," he informed her, and he didn't really mean to take on quite such an antagonistic tone of voice, but what are you going to do?

"_Dean_," Sam hissed.

Sam used to be the one who did this. And that thing that Sam did? That obedience? Dean used to be the one who did that.

Ellen gritted her teeth. "Well, you should," she said. "Especially with the way you drive. And I know you have enough on your police record that you probably don't want to be pulled over. You're gonna get yourselves caught or killed or both one of these days."

She wasn't wrong, Dean knew. By all means, driving without seatbelts was probably a stupid thing to do in their particular situation, but so was _drinking_ and driving and Dean did that more than he should, too - meaning that he did it once or twice when he was sad and not thinking. And that was okay, because he was going to die soon, anyway. He and Sam were both going to die soon because their lives were rivers of shit that would flow by really quick and dirty, filled with gross things and painful things and things Dean didn't want to think about, but he would undoubtedly experience some day in the near future. Not to mention diseases picked up by women just as promiscuous as Dean, himself, was.

It was all part of the job. Their unwritten and unprofitable job that didn't require seatbelts.

"We probably should," he agreed. "But you have no right to tell us what to do."

Her lips went really thin, so thin that they were practically just a line that sloped down at the corners. She held up a hand and made a small space between her thumb and other fingers.

"I swear to God, I am_ this _far away-"

"You're not our mom," Dean cut her off, and that line that was her mouth softened into lips again. Everything about her just seemed to fall down or fall apart or something that involved falling, and Dean felt a little stab of bad in the pit of his stomach, but he trooped on anyhow. Dean did this because he was a trooper. "You're not our mom and you're not our dad and we're not your kids. So stop treating us like we are."

He didn't wait around for a response. He just walked past both Ellen and Sam, up the crumbling porch steps and into the house. The knife was in the kitchen, he remembered. It had all gone down in the kitchen.

Kind of like how it had all just gone down outside. Dean didn't know why he kept doing this. Ellen was just helping. Ellen was taking care of them even though she had no obligation to, because they were in this situation where it was near impossible for them to get things done by themselves. And Dean kept kicking her and pushing her away, and she kept coming back because she was kind and loyal and at one point in time, had regarded Dean's father as family.

Dean never got the "it takes a village to raise a child" memo. It was just him and Sam and sometimes Dad. Nobody else.

Because Mom was dead. Mom was dead and she was never coming back, so everything else was dead, too. Dad was dead and tummies were dead and sandwiches-without-crusts were dead and the concept of friends was dead and the entire fucking world was dead because when Mom burned up in flames, all the lights went out. And the darkness was full of dead things and that's what their lives became.

Their lives became cockroach-infested kitchens in states of disarray, filled with abandoned cats who alternated between licking their paws and staring at Dean with keen eyes. They weren't black, at least. She hadn't been completely filling the stereotype.

They sat in a deformed circle around the knife, which had been licked clean of Sam's blood and Dean's blood and all that blood that might have been on it. There might have been bunny blood on it, but Dean had freed all the bunnies. Because sometimes - _most_ of the time, Dean tried really hard to be a good person.

For bunnies.

"Dean?" Sam was behind him. Dean turned around to find himself on the receiving end of a stormy look. "I don't know why you have to be such a dick all the time."

Dean didn't, either, so he just said, "Okay."

After a beat, "I take it back. I know exactly why you have to be such a dick all the time."

Dean didn't want to hear it.

"I don't want to hear it."

Sam nodded. "I know. What's with all the cats?"

"What's with your sweater vest?"

Sam rolled his eyes, but in one seemingly unconscious movement, swiped his hand over his beloved sweater vest, as if trying to dust this place or Dean's teasing off of it. "Stay on topic for once, will you?"

Dean shrugged. "I think the more pressing question is, why are they all gathered around the knife?"

This _was _the more pressing question, and Sam tilted his head as he regarded the circle of cats, took one small step towards them. Testing the waters.

"Be careful," Dean warned him, but the warning wasn't necessary. None of the cats moved to protect the knife. One of them even nuzzled Sam's leg and purred.

"They seem nice enough," Sam noted, and both tiny Winchesters plunged into the circle.

That's when the kitten dashed in. Dean hadn't seen him before, but it was quite clear from the get-go that this was one fierce little motherfucker. He pounced on the knife handle and hissed, swiping one menacing little paw in their direction.

"Um..." Sam said.

"Aw, he's so little." Dean, who was also one fierce little motherfucker, was quite fond of baby animals. "Hey there, little guy."

The kitten pulled back his ears and bristled his tail and hissed again.

Dean blinked at him. So did Sam. This was all very bizarre and they weren't really used to handling animals in their line of work. The only thing Dean really knew about kittens was that they were born in litters. And this one seemed to be alone.

"Where are all his brothers and sisters?" Dean wondered aloud.

Sam looked around and shrugged helplessly. "Maybe she sacrificed them or something."

"That bitch."

"Yeah."

They continued looking at the kitten, at its bristling tail and angry ears, until realization set in.

"Think he licked our blood off the knife?" Dean asked.

"Ten bucks says he did," Sam said. "Ten bucks says he was a lot bigger before."

In the end, they decided the only way they could take the knife was to take the kitten with it. Ellen, who had been in the doorway watching them the entire time, stepped in before they got too close.

"You're too small," she explained, looking at Sam and not at Dean. "He's small, too, but even small things are capable of causing a helluva lot of pain."

Dean swallowed at the words, and thought about apologizing. Again. 'Sorry' started to lose meaning after a while, though, so he didn't. He just watched as she scooped the kitten up with gentle hands.

The kitten didn't resist. He purred, in fact, and nuzzled his little face into her sleeve.

Dean picked up the knife. It was heavy in his hands.

He walked behind Ellen and the kitten on the way back to the truck, stayed by his brother's side where he belonged.

The kitten stayed curled up by Ellen's leg for the entire ride back to the Roadhouse. Dean kept trying to watch the passing scenery, kept trying not to tug at his seatbelt (which he had put on without being told to), but his eyes kept drifting back to that tiny kitten with his little body and easy affection.

Dean wondered how he did it.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **I'm not sure if anyone remembers or is still interested in this fic, but I had a chapter started just sitting there for ages so I thought I'd finish that up for the sake of semi-completion. Let me know if you're still interested and I'll try to make some time for it.

* * *

Dean danced his lazy fingers along the bar, occasionally brandishing one at the kitten, who was prancing his own little paws along the worn surface. The kitten retaliated time and time again by batting one of said paws at Dean's offending finger and then crouching, awaiting a time in which to pounce.

He never pounced, though. Dean never gave him the chance. He skittered his digits up to the adorable bastard and prodded at his sides until the kitty dropped down and lazily accepted Dean's offerings of tummy rubs and crude terms of endearment.

"M'naming you Cooter," he informed Cooter, which was clearly now the kitten's name. "Sam? I'm naming him Cooter."

Sam was sitting beside Dean, in front of the knife and Ash, who was on the other side of the bar with a big goddamn microscope and an expression that was trying not to appear puzzled.

"That's disgusting, Dean," Sam said. "Disgusting and unnecessary."

"Makes sense, though."

Sam scowled. "Can't you name him something respectable, instead?"

"No." Dean refused. Then, "Respectable like what?"

"Like...I don't know." Sam looked away, but Dean saw the pink flush to his cheeks, and knew for a fact that Sam actually _did_ know. He punched his baby brother in the thigh. "Ow!"

"Spill, bitch."

"No!"

Dean jabbed a finger into the guy's side, took in Sam's surprised giggle with delight and sheer amazement. "Are you ticklish, Sammy?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer. He remembered this. He remembered Sam being ticklish, remembered how clingy he used to be and Dean would...er. Forget he ever mentioned that. That never happened.

That only happened when it was just Sam and Dean and nobody else.

But Dean stuck his finger into Sam's side again, wiggled it a little, and found himself to be greatly amused by the squeal that emitted from his sweater-vest-laden sibling. "_Spill_," he insisted.

"Albert!" Sam finally spewed amidst titters and tee-hees. "Stop it, Dean. You're such a freakin' dickface."

Dean stopped. He was too amazed by Sam's choice of "respectable name" to keep going. "Albert?" he asked. "Seriously?"

Sam sniffed. "What's wrong with Albert?"

"Where do I begin?"

Ash cleared his throat. Dean turned his head in the mullet's direction. Not the man's, mind you, but the mullet's.

"As in Einstein, I'm guessin'," Ash said. "S'a good name. Strong name. Smart name."

Dean looked between the two of them, wide-eyed and disbelieving. His head swerved for a few moments until the kitten became impatient for more tummy rubs and batted Dean's small hand with his wee paw. "You're both geeks," he grumbled, and then smirked at the kitten. "Aren't they, Cooter?"

"Albert," Sam corrected.

Ash cleared his throat again. He was doing a lot of throat clearing today. Dean and Sam both turned to him at the same time, raised their eyebrows. "You probably shouldn't name him," he said, shifting on his feet nervously.

"Why not?" Dean asked, tapping one of Cooter's paws with his finger.

"'Cause I'm probably going to have to dissect him."

Dean went stock still at the words, his finger frozen on his furry friend. He couldn't believe his ears - he didn't _want_ to believe his ears, and part of him, inside that small head of his, somewhere inside this teeny tiny body with its teeny tiny bones and big, big feelings, Dean knew that if he were his normal self, he wouldn't be half as bothered as he was right now. Right now, it seemed like the end of the world. Right now, it seemed like someone was planning on ripping _Sam_ away from him.

He felt a pain that wasn't physical, but it was hot and burning, like fire was searing his insides up to his throat and his eyes welled with a horrible water that he quickly swiped away.

Sam, however, looked sad, but understanding. "Not comin' up with anything?"

"Nothing. Albie there might be our last hope."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Sam said reasonably. Dean wasn't looking at either of them. He was looking at Cooter, at his innocent eyes and his playful stance, thinking of the way he nuzzled his little face against Dean's hand, and the way Dean named him for a woman's genital region and how that was funny, but it wasn't really a name you give someone you don't want to die, not ever.

John, after Dad.

No. No, that was way too personal. But it was the first thing that came to his head. Because Dad was Dean's hero. Dad was half of Dean's everything. Dean couldn't name a kitten after him, though, Dean had to go with an old faithful.

"Nobody's killing Angus," he informed Sam and Ash. "And I'll beat the living crap out of you if you try."

They looked at him like he was...well, like he was six. Even Sam, who was also six, was looking at Dean like he was six, and the little shaggy-haired asshole even reached across the bar to pat Dean placatingly on the hand and say, "Dean, I know...I know it sucks, but we might not have a-"

"_No_," Dean snarled. "There's always a fucking choice. Don't give me that shit."

"Dean..."

But Dean was gathering the newly-dubbed Angus in his arms and slipping off the barstool, his mind awhirl with awful thoughts of someone taking the kitten away from him, of letting them, of the resultant mess of blood and tufts of fur and lifeless eyes and no meows. His ribs were drums that his heart beat against and he tucked his nose into the kitten's little neck, felt the soothing rumble of a purr. Dean felt truly fucked up. He felt so small, but so big all at once, with this life in his hands, and this knowledge that if he wanted to, Ash could easily take it away. Especially with Sam backing him.

Dean needed backup.

This is what went through his mind as he walked deliberately into the back of the bar, through the swinging doors, trying to blink away the tears that kept threatening their stupid way to his eyes, sniffing, clutching Angus tighter to him still.

"Dean?"

Dean was a little bastard. Dean has been a bastard ever since he's been little. It's been a couple of days now that he's been little, a lifetime that he's been a bastard. And it's always Ellen that gets dealt the brunt of his impertinence, but it's Ellen now, that he turns to.

"Baby, what's the matter?"

Shit. Fucking tears. Fucking images of blood and dead kittens and Dad all in his head at once.

"They might kill 'im. Ash said. Said it might be necessary."

He felt Ellen's hand on his shoulder, felt the warm pressure of it as it gave him one soothing squeeze. "Sweetie, I-"

"You won't let him, right? I'm sorry...I'm sorry about everything, Ellen. I don't mean it. I don't. I'm sorry I'm such a little douche all the time, but I...you won't let them, right? Please, don't let them."

Dean couldn't deal with another dead thing. Especially not one that was so warm in his arms right now.

Speaking of arms, Dean was wrapped in some. Soft arms, gentle arms, strong arms. He lifted his face from the kitten and buried his nose in a neck that smelled like his mother's used to, blinked wet lashes against soft skin and resisted the urge to drop Angus and cling to Ellen like a desperate child.

Dean was a man after all. A big, good-looking one with lots of guns and a smart mouth. It's not his fault he was presently in the shape of a little boy with too many feelings and an overwhelming fondness for kittens.

"I won't let them," Ellen said softly, and Dean felt lips against the side of his head, warm, maternal lips that held promises of endless love and protection. Dean soaked the kiss in, didn't want to move.

And in that moment, he silently vowed to stop being a little douche. Or at least try.


End file.
